Pears opened the Articles of War and read the relevant numbers with little change from his normal tone. He finished with the words, '…he shall be punished according to the Laws and Customs of such cases used at sea.' He replaced his hat, adding, 'Two dozen lashes.'

The rest of the proceedings moved swiftly. Carlsson was stripped to the waist and seized up to the grating, his arms spread up and out as if he was crucified.

Balleine had taken his cat-o'-nine-tails from the red baize bag and was running it through his fingers, his face set in a grim frown. He was to be in Bolitho's boat for the attack. Was he thinking of that?

Pears said in his harsh voice, 'Do your duty.'

Balleine's thick arm came back, over and down, the lash swishing across the man's naked shoulders with a dull crack. Bolitho heard the man gasp as the air was knocked from his lungs.

'One,' counted the master-at-arms.

Nearby, the surgeon and his mates waited to attend the man should he faint.

Bolitho made himself watch the ritual of punishment, his heart like lead. It was unreal. The grey light, the stark clarity of the sailmaker's patches on the heavily flapping main-course. The lash rose and fell, and the scars across the Swede's skin soon changed to overflowing red droplets, which altered into a bloody mess of torn flesh as the flogging continued. Some of the blood had spattered across the man's flaxen hair, the rest eddied and faded in the drizzle across the deck planking.

'Twenty-one!'

Bolitho heard a midshipman sobbing quietly, and saw Forbes, the youngest one aboard, gripping his companion's arm to control himself.

Carlsson had not cried out once, but as the final stroke cracked over his mutilated back he broke, and started to weep.

'Cut him down.'

Bolitho looked from the captain's profile to the watching company. Two dozen lashes was nothing to what some captains awarded. But in this case it might destroy the man. Bolitho doubted if Carlsson had understood more than a few words of what had been said to him.